


Berenger in Amsterdamn (AKA Demon Kitties And Their Blood)

by kathrikat



Category: The Meat Blockade (Podcast)
Genre: Blood, Cats, Gen, Guns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7134431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kathrikat/pseuds/kathrikat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Berenger never becomes a gunslingin' super writer who uses his cowardice and stories as a weapon, nor befriends a kitty at some point, then I'm glad there's this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Berenger in Amsterdamn (AKA Demon Kitties And Their Blood)

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Yes Amsterdam is spelt like that on purpose
> 
> 2\. I got inspiration for this story from the songs "A Bar in Amsterdam" and "Demon Kitty Rag" by Katzenjammer 
> 
> 3\. I hope you enjoy the fic!

It's been nine hours since he's last seen Max.

 

 It could've been longer, or maybe less, but nine hours feels right to him. It feels right to him in a world full of wrongs. He takes a step forward and his wobbly, tired knees just about buckle beneath him. _How long will it last?_ His weary mind asks him. How long will he get to find answers? Are there answers? A cackle and blast of light tells him a storm is approaching across the hills, and he groans in annoyance.  
  


_Great. Just my Berenger luck._   
  


He hasn't seen civilization since Max, and he doesn't know whether he should be scared, or relieved. Maybe he's a bit of both. Maybe he's a bit of neither. He doesn't know. Add that to the list of things he has to figure out. Which is, by now, _extremely_ long.  
  


He plays his plan in his head, over and over. A constant replay, hoping to get picked up by someone with a little more brains than him. Maybe someone who can actually tell him what's going on once in a while. He laughs, because, he, Karl Berenger, _has a plan_. He never thought he'd have one of those in his life. He couldn't tell you if it's a good one or not, but he hopes it will last.  
  


He moves, and the holster across his waist, rubs into his pant. The gun on his right side is sleek and smooth against his hand. He can admit, his shot isn't the best, but he can _shoot_ , which is another thing he never thought he'd be able to do. It's all a new addition to his being, received when he was running. It isn't much, but it's something.  
  


Maybe not answers, but something.  
  


He grimaces at the pounding in his chest. He's scared. He's been scared since the beginning. This feeling that's banging in his chest and telling him to move, to run, isn't _new_. Karl doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing, either. He knows he's prepared, though, because he has a _plan_. Maybe one that doesn't have all the dents worked out just yet, but it's better than the naïve, unknowing Karl Berenger in the beginning. The one who didn't know anything. Who didn't know as much as he does now. Who was only interested in meeting new people, and trying to live a comfortable life. He sighs.  
  


Sometimes, he wishes he was still like that.  
  


The satchel that hangs by his left side is filled to the brim with paper. Its the weapon that he uses first. His words. Then, if that doesn't work there's always ol' Scarface he has stuck to him. Most of it is accounts of what he's learned, what he's found. Old love stories he wrote, old stories he'd shown to Max.  
  


To someone that betrayed him.  
  


Berenger likes to think that deep down, Max didn't want to do it. That he told everyone those bad, awful rumors because he was being blackmailed, or because of some other dumb reason.  
  


Most days, though, he knows otherwise.  
  


Squinting, he sees a sign in the distance. It's worn and torn and reeks of trouble. _Welcome to Amsterdamn_. Likely spelled incorrectly on purpose. He doesn't know how he got all the way across the ocean to some kind of alternate hell city called Amsterdamn, but a part of him tells him that he hasn't really left Nighttown since the beginning. He can smell it in the air as he passes the sign. It's a kind of unsettlement in the pit of his stomach, maybe deeper than that. _In his soul_. It sends a piercing headache through the front of his forehead, telling him to turn back while he still can.  
  


He moves forward.  
  


His legs flinging about like he has no control over them, he sees the lantern ahead. It's dangling and swaying in a violent wind that Karl can't feel. A honkey tonk tune plays in the background like a bittersweet calling to his heart strings. It reminds him of home. But home wasn’t a place anymore.  
  


It was a story.  
  


Home was an idea, a plan. Home was the fear in his chest, and the pounding headache he had acquired. Home was running.Home was no where, nor anyone. Home was what he made it be.  
  


Home was _his_ story.  
  


Karl approaches the bar's porch. The wooden planks aren’t even tacked down, and he feels like hes going to fall through any moment. He grabs hold of the door in its creaky-barely-hinged-on-glory to try to stable his center of gravity, but mostly makes things worse. He doesn't fall though, so that’s a plus. The first thing that hits him, is the smell. Its...dirty. He doesn't know how a place smells dirty, but it does. Like a mix of fresh soil and sewage. It's not pleasant.  
  


The five people that are in the place, all turn their eyes on him. Some swiveling a complete 360 before reaching their satisfactory angle. He's used to this kind of thing by now. Younger Berenger would've hauled ass and cursed so much his children's children's _children_ would be feeling the soap his mother would be shoving down his throat. The self playing piano also comes to a halt to recognize his presence. It reminds him of some kind of cartoony western show.  
  


He moves forward.  
  


At first, he doesn't see the barkeep. He knows that when he sits down and blinks he'll be there, though. The same barkeep from the beginning. He's always there. His voice low and smooth. He's surprised the guy never got into doing announcements of some kind.  
  


 _One_.  
  


His eyes open and there he is. The same as when he first saw him. Karl starts to think that the reason the guy never went into a different job was simply because he’d never had any job other than barkeep.  
  


Their eyes meet and the barkeep raises his brows in surprise for a moment, the shades he's wearing looking silly as always.  
  


 _"Pf- Hello, Mr. Berenger. How may I help you this evening?"_ The man tries to suppress his chuckle at the beginning, But his face manages to go back to normal, awaiting his customer's response.  
  


Karl smiles, leaning forward a bit. It isn't genuine. "Haven't seen you in a long time."  
  


The barkeep smiles, cleaning a glass absent mindedly.  
  


_"No, you haven't. Not since.."_   
  


Berenger nods. Not since that train robbery, and he was serving alcohol. That one was a doozy. He knows the barkeep doesn't like any trouble, so he doesn't mention it.  
  


Before he orders, he stops himself, noticing the others frown, lip turned slightly in disgust.  
  


"What?" Asks Karl. "What is it?" He follows the barkeep's gaze to his left side, and for a moment let's a smile grace his features.  
  


 _"Is that...?"_ Asks the barkeep. He doesn't have to finish, because Karl knows what he's going to ask. _Is that your writing?_  
  


"Oh _Yes_. Why? You scared, _Bertrand_?" He lets his pride swell when he watches the barkeep back up a few paces.

  
 _"Heh..Hey! What's that behind you!"_  The barkeep yells, getting the chance to chuckle this time. Berenger doesn't look behind him.  
  


 _Two_.  
  


A second time he blinks and Bertrand is gone.  
  


Berenger pulls on his mock hurt tone, and yells out. "Hey, what about my drink! That isn’t really in your job description to just run off like that, barkeep!"

  
 _Three_.

  
A fruity, more feminine drink appears on the counter. Complete with a little umbrella and everything. Berenger smiles. At least he knew what he wanted.  
  


"Pleasure doing business with you, Bertrand."  
  


Once he downs the drink, he spins around in his stool, to find the bar empty, the piano playing a sad melody, and the lights maybe a little bit darker than they were before. He tries for the door, but to no avail. It seems that it received an oddly big amount of strength in the short amount of time hes been there.  
  
  


**_Play the piano.  
  
_ **

 

The message is etched into the door. Maybe with a knife or ice pick. He huffs and turns around, something there that he hadn't expected.  
  


On top of the piano, was a cat.  
  


Black fur more beautiful than a midnight sky. Eyes as orange as pumpkin. It's tail curled tightly around its feet, slowly lifting behind its head and flicking in curiosity. Karl was pretty sure it was a Bombay. Long haired. It was like it called out to him.  
  


He moves forward.  
  


The piano had shut off when he approached it. He felt deep inside him that the cat had something to do with it. But there it sat. Still. Kicking it's paws in nonchalance, and eyeing him carefully. Like Karl might break if he's stared at too much.  
  


"I can't play, you know." He said. More to himself than the piano or the cat. The cat looked at him, and then to the piano.  
  


"My hands are too calloused. They're worn from writing. You know, it's my passion, but it's a pain in the ass when all you have is a number too pencil and birch bark to write with." His paper isn't actually birch, but he's had to use it before. Worst day of his life.  
  


"They're too bruised and beat up." He speaks solemnly, tracing over the scars, dirt and oil stains, and callouses. His hands are rough, sore. He hasn't used them for anything this delicate yet in a long time.  
  


"Wouldn't want to ruin anything."  
  


He watches as the cat steps down pressing a pad onto a key. No sound comes out. It's eerie. Like opening a book and having no words. The kitty rubs against him pressing it's head underneath his hands. He laughs, and its fun until he feels a liquid from the cats face. Cold. Reeling his hand back to examine it, his face turns to disgust. His fingers were all coated in a dark red sludge. Consistency of syrup or fudge. It smelled like everything unholy decided to piss together, and when he looks at the cat, he finds the source. The same liquid was coming from the cat's eyes, dripping in what looked like chunks.  
  


"What the fuck?"  
  


Berenger usually would've been out of here by now, but the creature intrigued him. He learned to never leave something that intrigues you. The stuff looked like blood, but smelled like the sins of every person on the planet. He brought the stuff to his lips, just to make sure, and he nearly wretched. It tastes like iron that doesn’t taste like iron. Memories without thought.  
  


A bar without a barkeep.  
  


He watches as the strange liquid seeps into his skin and eradicates everything on them. The scars, the stains. They looked like they did in the beginning. No callouses. Something in his mind whispers; _Demon blood._  
  


The cat presses another key, settling itself in his lap.  
  


"I don't even know how to play, though, kitty."  
  


That was partially a lie. He knew how to play twinkle twinkle little star. Half way maybe. But there was something, _something_ strange about the piano. It sat there inanimate as ever, but it was like it breathed.  
  


A piano with life.  
  


He scoots the stool forward some, and presses a key. His other hand coming up along with it, and before long, he's pressing keys and making a melody he didn't know he _could_ make. It's sad. It reminds him of the days before he even really knew about Nighttown. Before he knew Max. Fluttering with nostalgia, and a longing for forever, he continues.  
  


And then the sound stops.  
  


A click behind him tells him the door has opened, and he ponders about not choosing that opportunity for a moment.  
  


For a moment.  
  


He gets up, cracks his fingers. He looks at the cat, who’s licking it's paws now. He wonders what will become of it without him.  
  


"I think I'll take you with me, kitty."  
  


He picks up the thing, puts it up on his shoulders, and exits the bar.  
  


"I can't call you kitty forever, you know." He talks to the cat as he looks up to the star lit sky. The moon is awake and full. He wonders if it watches over him.  
  


"Ill call you..." he thinks for a moment. "Linus. I'll call you Linus. You like that?"  
  


The cat meows back.  
  


"Linus it is then."  
  


So, he's got a new friend now. It isn't much, but it's something. Maybe not answers, but _something_.  
  


He moves forward.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate summary: Berenger walks into a bar...


End file.
